The clouds that had blanketed the night sky had disappeared, leaving the morning sun to shine down on the dusty black Impala as it cruised through the little town. Dean struggled to keep the dented car below thirty; any faster and she would try to sneak over to the edge of the road, as if embarrassed to be seen in her current condition. Dean spoke words of encouragement whenever he felt the wheel begin to move under his hands. Sam kept shooting odd looks at his brother, but wisely kept his mouth shut. He was just happy Dean had let him in the car at all. The older man loved to point out that one could fit a body in the trunk of the classic car. Sam had been certain this was the day Dean would prove his theory.
Sam tucked the map back into the glove compartment. "Turn left at the next light. I think it'll be on the left."
Dean nodded, glancing over at Sam. Frowning, he did a double take, his gaze lingering a little too long for Sam's liking.
"You want to keep your eyes on the road, please?" Sam said, slightly irritated.
"Yeah, wouldn't want to crash into a tree, would we?" Dean said, straight-faced.
Sam groaned. He didn't know how much longer he could endure the endless stream of snide remarks. But at least Dean had turned his focus back to the road.
Dean slowed to a stop at the red light. His green eyes settled on Sam again. Sam fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. Finally, he could take it no longer.
Sam whipped his head to the side. "What?!"
Dean made no reaction to the abrupt outcry, he simply continued staring. Just when Sam thought his brother had taken a little side trip to Catatonia Island, Dean broke his silence.
"You might want to cover up that goose egg. We don't want to raise any suspicions, or bring anymore attention to ourselves." Dean said seriously.
Sam self-consciously worked his hair to hide the lump near his temple. "Oh, and that gash on your forehead just screams Nerdy Newspaper Boy." Sam said mockingly as he continued to mess with his unruly bangs.
Dean had forgotten about the cut he'd received during their battle with the skin walker. Both men leaned toward the middle of the car, vying for the rearview mirror. The Winchesters were too busy with their reflections to notice that the light had turned green. A loud horn sounded from behind the Chevy, eliciting a gasp from Dean and a yelp from Sam, whose hand swished through his hair.
Dean sent the other driver the one-fingered salute before executing a wobbly left turn. "Bite my ass, I'm going!" he shouted.
"Nice going, Ace." Sam laughed shakily.
"Aw, shut up." Dean muttered. "Keep your eyes peeled for Greenfields." Dean glanced over at Sam, raising an amused eyebrow. "Alfalfa."
Sam scowled as he patted down the lock of hair that resulted from his extreme reaction to the car horn.
Sam was saved from further ridicule by the presence of a large white brick building looming on the left. The parking lot was surprisingly full; Dean finally found a spot far away from the door. He gave his reflection one more disapproving glance before getting out of the car. There was nothing he could do to hide the ugly mark. At least Sam was able to manipulate his dark mop to cover his unsightly bump.
"You want me to do the talking?" Sam said under his breath as they ambled through the double doors. He took in the beige walls and fake green plants that pointed the way from the vestibule to the main desk.
"I got this one." Dean said, grinning devilishly. A beautiful blonde woman sat at the reception desk, her blue eyes flashed warmly at the two newcomers. Finally something was going his way.
Dean sauntered up to the front desk, pulling his jacket slightly open. His green button down shirt brought out his mossy green eyes, which landed like a hawk on the young woman.
"Can I help you?" The blonde said brightly.
"I'm sure that you can." Dean winked charmingly.
Sam turned around so the young lady wouldn't see him rolling his eyes. It looked like yet another fawn was about to enter the lion's den.
The two were engaged in a quiet conversation. Sam strained to hear, but couldn't quite make out the words. The woman made a few sympathetic noises and reached her hand towards Dean, who caught it and gave it a smooth kiss. Occasionally a giggle could be heard, usually followed by Dean's soft chuckle. Sam waited a few more minutes, then loudly cleared his throat. After a few more flirtatious exchanges, Dean finally stepped back.
"Thanks, Michelle. I'll see you on the way out." Dean flashed one last smile, pocketing the piece of paper she'd slipped him.
Sam followed Dean down the pale corridor. "Well?" he prompted.
"Oh yeah. Got her number. I told her I got this little beauty fighting off a mugger." Dean said proudly, pointing to his head.
Sam inwardly groaned. He'd left himself wide open for that one. Sam kept his voice neutral, not wanting to give Dean the satisfaction of hearing his exasperation.
"I meant, what room is he in?" Sam asked.
"182. Right down this hallway."
Coming up to the door, Sam rapped lightly. "Mr. White?"
No answer. Sam and Dean exchanged uncertain glances. With a shrug of his good shoulder, Dean rapped harder. "Mr. White?"
"I said, 'Come on in already!'" came a gruff voice from behind the door. "What are ya, deaf?"
Dean looked at Sam in surprise. The younger man's eyes were wide open, a hint of amusement sparkling as he pushed open the door.
They were not prepared for what lay before their eyes. Unlike the drab khaki-colored walls of the hallway, the room was painted in a bright greenish/blue. Pictures of classic cars covered the walls, most with bikini-clad women draped over the hoods. The simply furnished room featured an unmade bed in the corner, and a desk near the door. A woman with unnaturally red hair pouted at them from the calendar above the computer.
"Oh my god." Sam couldn't help saying, slightly horrified.
"You're telling me!" Dean said as he gazed around the room, awestruck. Sam blinked at his brother. Where Sam saw a gaudy, tasteless room, Dean saw a beautiful masterpiece.
"You boys gonna stand there gawkin' all day, or are you gonna tell me what the hell you want?"
The slight whirring of a motor announced the wheelchair's presence slightly before it rolled out from behind the door. In it sat a thin man wearing a blue shirt slightly darker than the walls. Distrustful brown eyes stared out from under long salt and pepper hair. His hands rested atop his sweatpants as he looked from one brother to the other.
"Um, hello, Mr. White? I'm Sam...this is Dean." Sam gave what he hoped was a disarming smile.
Dean gave a distracted nod. He walked over to get a closer look at a framed 5x7. "1956 Cadillac. Nice. Oo, is that a 1958 Racer?" he asked eagerly, moving on to the next picture.
"I see you have an eye for cars." Mr. White said.
Dean finally was able to tear himself away from the pictures. "There are three things in life a man should never take for granted. A cold beer, a hot girl, and an even hotter car."
The corners of Mr. White's mouth twitched under the gray whiskers. Dean could see he was beginning to win over the man. Time to go for the home run. "I've got a 1967 Impala. Black. She's a real beauty."
Mr. White nodded approvingly. "That tells me you have good taste in cars. It still don't tell me what you're doing here."
Sam took a step forward so he was next to Dean. "Mr. White, we're writing an article for our college newspaper about the car crash out on Blue Corner's road in 1975. I know it's a painful subject, but we were hoping to get your side of the story."
"Ain't no other side to be heard. The other guy died." The wheelchair-bound man said bluntly.
Sam shifted uncomfortably under Mr. White's intense gaze. This was not going well. Sam glanced at Dean, silently begging him for assistance. But Dean had moved back to the wall, taking an extreme interest in the pictures.
"I'm sorry. I, uh, I didn't mean to imply…" Sam broke off as a throaty noise bubbled up from the old man. It took Sam a minute to realize he was being laughed at.
Mr. White's stone face cracked into a smile. "I'm just messin' with ya, kid. And call me George." he said, sticking his right arm out.
Sam just stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the outstretched hand.
"Where I come from, one usually shakes the hand that's been offered to him." George's voice snapped Sam out of his stupor. Leaping forward he grasped the hand, impressed by the strength behind it. Sam nudged Dean with his elbow, feeling slightly better as he watched his brother go through the same routine.
"But I thought…I read you were paralyzed from the neck down." Dean said dazedly as he shook George's hand.
George crossed his arms. "Chest down. I have use of my arms, but only have about 60 percent mobility in my left hand and 90 percent in my right. Bein' reporters, you should know better than to believe everythin' you read."
Unsure of how to respond the Winchesters just stood there, each hoping the other would step in to smooth things over. Their silence only seemed to raise George's trepidation.
George narrowed his eyes at them. "Ya got any ID?"
Wordlessly Sam pulled out his Stanford Student ID card and handed it over. One of the few links left over from his attempt at a normal life, the little card also came in very handy in situations like this.
George looked at it critically. "You came all the way out here for a story?"
"We have family in town. Cousins. They told us about the crash. You're a bit of a local legend." Dean said smoothly.
George snorted. "Aren't you a world-class suck up. Yeah, nothing like barely survivin' a head on crash to gain a guy some notoriety."
George gave another bitter laugh and handed the card back. Expertly maneuvering around Sam, he wheeled over to the mini fridge that sat on the floor. Grabbing a beer for himself, he tossed two bottles to the brothers. "What the hell. I ain't got nothin' to do today, and you seem like decent boys. Fine, have a seat."
Looking around at the chairless room, Sam awkwardly settled himself onto the worn carpet. Dean rolled his eyes, but also sat down.
"I feel like I'm in friggin' kindergarten. What is this, story time?" Dean whispered to Sam, who coughed a laugh into his hand.
George took a long swig from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "So, what is it you want to know?"
"What exactly happened that night? The night of the crash?" Sam asked.
"Me and Marc weren't exactly the best of friends." George began, referring to the driver of the now infamous Mustang. "We'd gotten into our share of fights, usually 'bout stupid crap. You know, who's car was better, who's girl was hotter. Nothin' real big.
"One day, me and the boys were out near the lake shootin' the breeze and havin' a little fun with the ladies. Marc and his buddies showed up and started messin' with us, harassin' the girls. Before you know it, fists are flyin'. The girls stepped in to try and calm us down. Next thing I knew, May... Marc's girl...was on the ground, blood just gushin' from her nose."
"I honestly don't know how it happened, but it sent Marc into a rage. I'd never seen him like that. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and started comin' after me. One of my buddies gave me his knife. I'm tellin' ya, it was just like in the movies. The girls were screamin' and cryin' while me and Marc circled each other. My best buddy stepped in between us, tryin' to talk us down." George broke off with a rueful laugh as he downed the rest of the bottle.
"Man, he was freakin' out almost as much as the girls were; babbling on about better ways to solve things. He came up with the idea to race."
"Race?" Dean broke in.
"That's how it all started. Just a simple race; winner gets pinks. So we all drove out to Blue Corner's Road. Only once we got there, Marc wanted to raise the stakes. He challenged me to a game of chicken. And me being the stupid, prideful bastard that I was, I went along with it."
He broke off with a sigh; his voice grew soft as he continued. "And I guess you know the rest. We drove straight at each other, our damn pride not lettin' us pull away. I remember seein' his face just before we crashed. God, he looked so scared."
George's voice cracked, and he swallowed a few times before continuing. "Next thing I knew they was pullin' me from my car and Marc was gone."
George seemed to shake himself as he returned to the present. "So there you have it. The End. Happily ever after. Hasta La Vista."
Dean and Sam sat in stunned silence, trying to find the right words to fill the awkward silence. Finally Sam offered up the best he had. "I'm so sorry."
George wheeled over to the fridge and grabbed another beer, downing half of it in one fell swoop. "Yeah, well, that was thirty years ago. I lived, he died. Life goes on."
Dean looked over at Sam, posing a silent question. How much sympathetic small talk was necessary before they asked about George's Firebird? Sam flashed Dean his patented, Dude, shut up! look. Dean had a tendency to rush forward, often choosing the dangerous path to get to the finish line faster. Reliving horrible memories makes emotions run high; they had to chose their words very carefully from here on out.
Dean recognized the look, but went ahead anyway. "So, um, what happened to the car?"
Sam closed his eyes, weary frustration descending upon him. Subtle, Dean. Real subtle.
George wiped away a bit of moisture from his eyes. "What?"
"Dean, maybe we should…" Sam began.
Dean spoke over his brother. "The Firebird you were driving. What happened to it?"
The distrusting look reappeared as George hunched his shoulders down towards his visitors. "The Firebird? What does that have to do with your story?"
"Easy there." Dean said soothingly. "I'm just curious."
"What exactly is the topic of your little tale, anyhow?"
"It's a human interest story." "Changing lives." Sam and Dean's words overlapped as both men spoke at once.
"A human interest story on how one night can change lives forever." Sam tried backpedaling, his heart beating in time with his pounding head.
"Really." George wheeled closer to Sam, causing him to scoot back a few inches. "I would think a big time college newspaper would be more interested in current events than one small accident that happened thirty years ago."
"It'll be in the local history section. We're hoping it will resonate with young adults, maybe get people to think about the consequences of their actions." Sam scrambled to find the right words to fix the situation. Damn Dean and his impatience, he just had to push forward. Now George had pulled up the drawbridge, leaving them floundering in the moat.
George finished his beer and set the empty bottle on top of the fridge. "How about we make things a little more fair. I'll answer your questions if you answer mine."
George wheeled over to the door and shut it, setting the lock with the twist of his wrist. Sam and Dean felt paralyzed by the cold smile George gave them as he turned back around. But what really turned their blood to ice was the small pistol aimed down at them. "Starting with who you really are, and what the hell you want. Now."